


Raise the Eagle High

by Parcivale



Category: Napoleonic Wars - Fandom, Original Fiction - Fandom, Original Work, Original setting - Fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29951469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parcivale/pseuds/Parcivale
Summary: The Continent is once again at war. A Coalition of Nations has formed to fight the upstart Jacques Trement, who crowned himself Emperor of Second Empire of Olme after overtaking the states of the peninsula in a lightning campaign. One of these nations, the Kolrausch Empire, is on the brink of disaster. Once the ruler of the entire Continent, centuries of decline and war have weakened it immensely. The fault-lines of Kolrausch society threaten to tear the empire into pieces, and its thirty million souls hang in the balance...





	1. Like A Tiger in a Pit

**Author's Note:**

> So this is, by and large, and experiment, and a creative writing exercise. I designed these characters and the setting for a tabletop RPG system which never saw the light of day. So I may as well do something with them, so here they are, in some sort of monstrous amalgam of perspectives which hopefully will appeal and make sense to someone out there. So, hey, here we go!

The hussar rode, confident upon his best horse. His uniform was immaculate, save for a single wine-stain on his gold brocade. He took a swig of water from his canteen, and gazed out over the landscape. Hills, as far as the eye could see, interspersed with forest upon forest. These were young forests, nothing like the ones from his home in the East. The old forests here had burned down long ago. 

He smiled, packed away his water, and continued to ride. Looking to his left and right, he confirmed that he was not alone. About a hundred paces, on each side, there was another rider, and a hundred paces from them, another. A long, continuous stretch of men, covering as much ground as humanly possible. 

Then he heard a whistle blow, and dread began to pool in his gut. He was roughly to the right of the row of men and horses, so he turned left and began to ride inward. The men on his flanks rode into the center as well, and the men behind them. The hussar’s palms began to sweat. To calm himself, he drew his saber. 

He looked from side to side. There was Jan to his left, and Mikkel to his right. They had gone through training together, they had drilled together. Now, he thought, they might die together. He could only assume that those thoughts filled their heads as well.

Then, it came into view. The enemy dragoons, in their blue and gold, stood at a dead stop, some three-hundred meters to their front. It was hard to make out, but he could see that they had carbines. Whether they were loaded, loading, or unready, he could not tell. He prayed silently and quickly to Oikoros that it was the last of those options. 

“Ready lads!” Sergeant Ritter had drawn his sabre, the hussar could see. They were closer now. He couldn’t guess how far away, but he could see the dragoons more clearly. He could see them raise their muskets. He could hear Sergeant Ritter give the command to charge. He slammed his feet down on the horse’s sides with all his force.  
The hussar’s horse was dead. It had died a millisecond ago, but it had taken him quite some time to figure it out. What tipped him off had not been the earth that rushed up to greet him as the horse tumbled, end on end, nor the arm that broke when he had instinctively reached out to stop himself, nor the crushing weight of the animal’s corpse on top of him. No, it was the blood. The blood from where the musketball had caved in the skull of the beast, and the blood which splashed upwards from the horse’s head and covered the Hussar’s face and uniform.

It took him a moment to realize where he was. It took him a further moment to realize that he was in pain. When he did realize so, it came in a wave that slowly settled into a flood. He screamed in agony. No one could hear it, of course, over the sound of gunfire and swords clashing together and screamed orders. When his lungs didn’t have any more air in them, he collapsed backwards on to his back.

His vantage-point on the ground was quite scenic. He could see Sergeant Rittier, in his magnificent red coat, get shot by three musketballs, collapsing off his horse. He could see a lancer in bright blue and red place his lance between the shoulderblades of a corporal in red and gold he couldn’t identify. He saw, everywhere, death. He closed his eyes.  
He heard the clatter of hooves approach. He drew his pistol and pulled the hammer back. He prayed, silently to himself, that it was loaded, and pulled himself upward, firing vaguely in the direction of the sound. A roar, a puff of smoke, and a moment of ear-ringing silence. The man in red and gold in front of him collapsed off his horse. 

The hussar was panicking. He threw the pistol away and attempted to dislodge himself from under his horse. He tried, again and again, placing more and more weight upon his broken arm, until he heard a tearing sound. He was suddenly in pain again, too much pain to realize what he’d done, and too much pain to see a lance come from his side, and in too much pain to notice that it had cut through his windpipe. He collapsed upon the ground and bled.


	2. The Ball at the Haschenbach Palace, or, Katarina von Kreuzer I

The Duke von Haschenbach’s palace was alive, once again, with the sounds of a party. The great hall, unused and abandoned for a hundred years, was once again filled with music, albeit now it was polonaises and waltzes, and not passagallo and minuets. The dance floor was filled once again with revelers, albeit in unfamiliar clothing, doing unfamiliar dances. Had any of the line of Haschenbach, now long-extinct, seen the scene unfolding, they would be unable to conclude what exactly was happening, beyond the fact that it was a ball of some sort.

The Baroness Katarina von Kreuzer weaved through the waltzing crowds, taking great care not to spill the glass of cheap sparkling wine she carried in each hand. A veritable sea of infantrymen, grenadiers, cuirassier, and uhlan filled the floor, dancing with each other, with the wives of some officers, with hangers-on to the baggage train, with anyone they could get their hands on. After some effort, and a close call with a young hussar, she made it to the edge of the dance floor, handing off one glass to Captain Adrian Rubinsky with a sigh of relief. They toasted in complete silence, and took a deep pull from their glasses. 

To an outside observer, they made an odd pair. Rubinsky was tall, wide, with a shaved head and an immaculately fitted cuirassier uniform, covered in pale green brocade and red accent, all reflected from a mirrorlike breastplate. Kreuzer, on the other hand, was thin, short, with a full head of hair, her own uniform merely a standard infantry uniform with larger epaulette and a gold sash across the chest. 

They stood in silence for several minutes, content to merely sip on their plonk and watch the ball unfold. Rubinsky pretended to admire the gold filigree along the rococo palatial walls, or perhaps the ceiling, where the painted-on gods came from heaven to bestow beauty and truth upon the House von Haschenbach. If only the gods, Rubinsky mused, were still watching. Perhaps they would not be in this mess. Kreuzer had abandoned all pretensions of being interested in the ball, instead staring at one of her boots.

Lines of worry spread across her face. Her mind was not here, not in the realm of cobbling together whatever instrumentalists in the army could bang out more than a marching pace to play a poor approximation of a waltz, or in the realm of making sure the camp prostitutes didn’t give too many of her men the Rotengenish Disease. No, her mind was in the realm of blood and death. Her teeth ground together as she remembered their position.  
She stopped herself. 

The big cuirassier looked down at her after some time. Genuine care filled his eyes as he looked down at her form, trembling from the rage. “Katarina.” He spoke softly and gently, unbecoming of his size and roughness. “Relax. You’ll spoil the dancing.”

She looked up and him, then away. She took another swig of her wine, finishing the glass. Looking out at the crowd of men, she wondered about the auspices of such a thing. Her meagre corps was to join with two others in three days time, then march on the enemy. Was the ball a good idea? Was the rest a good idea? Her men had been on the march for two months now, chasing and being chased across the miserably mountainous terrain. Would the morale gained from such a pitiful amount of dancing really even the odds?

Almost as if on cue, Colonel Wolfgang Bieren sauntered up to the pair, holding a glass of port in his hand. The young colonel was flushed red, his cheeks forming into dimples from a massive wine-induced grin, but he held his composure in his hussar uniform quite gracefully still. He gave a deep bow to Kreuzer and Rubinsky, port spilling down to the floor.

Rubinsky grinned at the young man’s approach, clasping him on the shoulder as he got up from his bow. “Well if it isn’t the man of the hour!” Bieren’s grin adopted a sheepish character as he shrugged.

“Well, if you say so. Surely our darling commander here had something to do with ensuring the celebration took place a week early.” His words were slurred, uncomposed. Katarina rolled her eyes. The man was drunk.

Katarina looked at him with all the contempt that society would allow you to look at a war hero with. “It’s because the men needed a break before we meet the enemy.”

“Now, now,” Rubinsky interrupted. “While that is true, let’s not downplay our friend here, Hero of Siencziwiek, Conqueror of the Nordlands, Hero of the Empire!” Rubinsky thrust his champagne in the air, in a toast that neither of his companions met. The sarcasm dripping from Rubinsky’s voice was picked up by neither the drunk, nor the general.

“Oh come now, I had little to do with it, it was all Field Marsh—“

“Nonsense!” Rubinsky shook him violently. “Don’t be bashful, young man, you won’t get any women by your side with that attitude!” Kreuzer shook her head, her head pounding with rage. Rubinsky was giving her reason to get more wine. She was gritting her teeth, giving herself a migraine. Breathe in, Katarina, she told herself, trying to steady her posture. The young man attempted to dislodge himself from Rubinsky’s iron grip, but found himself unable. 

“Now, Adrian, I must say,” Bieren slurred, nearly falling were it not for Rubinsky’s firm grip, “Don’t speak of women when mon general is arou--”

Kreuzer did not hear the rest of the conversation. She recused herself from the room, without, she hoped, either Rubinsky or Bieren noticing. She pounded through the halls of the palace, the polonaises and waltzes fading into the background, until they were as present as a minor case of tinnitus.

Several minutes and several adjoining rooms from the party later, Kreuzer collapsed into an armchair, rubbing her forehead. She sat there for a moment, brow furrowed, before standing up, too full of restless energy to not pace. The door creaked open, and Rubinsky entered, coming to full attention.

Kreuzer nodded him down, and then returned quickly to pacing. “What is it, Adrian? I apologize for before, but I need to think, I just need some time to think.”

No reply. Instead, Rubinsky walked across the room, sat down in a free armchair, and crossed his legs. His bulk made it seem as though he would break the chair and tumble to the floor like a clown.

“Katarina, there’s no point. It’s been four months, you’ve done this every night since the war began. Will you please at least observe your own ball?”

There was the clenched teeth again. Deep breaths. She looked him up and down, before sighing, and returning to her motions. “Adrian, I have no idea how you can remain calm. I know you’re not from the Empire, but surely you recognize that this whole scenario is preposterous!”

“You cannot say I don’t have any interest in this, even were I not quite literally a soldier in the Emperor’s army.” he replied, wryly.

She slumped into an armchair, facing him. “You’re right, this concerns everyone. After all, everyone is concerned when the balance of power is upset. It doesn’t matter who wins this war, Adrian. Either we win, and the Oulmic States are thrown back into chaos, or they win, and Trement throws the balance into his favor.” She sighed. 

“That sounds an awful lot like sympathy for the enemy. Who cares if the Oulmic States are thrown into chaos?”

Kreuzer looked up, confusion washing over her face. She opened her mouth, and then closed it. Then opened it, and closed it again. Then, at long last, she spoke. “Listen, Adrian. We only have to deal with this upstart ‘Emperor’ because we destroyed the order which held the peninsula in check fifty years ago. Now, from the muck and chaos, we’ve got an opponent we deserve-- a madman calling himself emperor, declaring war on the known world. And the most terrifying thing is that he might win.”

The big man rested his head on one of his hands, his various medals and brocades clinking together. “And if he wins, we’re both dead and no longer have to worry about it. But he’s at war with three of the great powers. He’s only won the war up to this point via maneuver. If we can meet him in battle, what does it matter if we crush his ‘empire’ down to size?”

“It matters to us all! Let’s say we take revenge for 1248, then what? Our Empire grows, and the upstarts and the old guard come together to beat us back down, since we’ve grown too powerful. Let’s say Trement wins. He’s then too powerful to be beaten down by the other powers.”

The cuirassier shrugged, standing to fetch himself a drink from one of the myriad of crystal decanters, engraved with patterns of fasces and olive branches. He poured himself a glass of brandy, downed it in one go, and poured two more glasses. “And so? Either way, we’ve lost in the long term. Even if this war did not happen, the line’s going to fade out into nonexistence in the next century or so.”

“Now who’s being seditious?” Katarina had said it half-jokingly, but she knew there was truth to Adrian’s words. The House von Kolraush was dying, poisoned by their own blood being recycled over and over again, instead of simply marrying lesser families. For the gods’ sake, Frederich IV couldn’t speak without triggering a seizure.

Rubinsky shrugged. He took a sip of brandy, this time more measured. “It is the truth, Katarina. You cannot give yourself palpitations trying to delay the inevitable.”

“Is that not all of politics? Trying to delay the inevitability of death? This Emperor may die, the next one too. But we must use them while we can to, to, to improve things! Even if only a little!”

Rubinsky could not find an answer for a few moments, so he took the opportunity to hand her a glass of brandy. Kreuzer stood up to grab it, toasting with Adrian. She despised the stuff, but drank it nonetheless, out of sheer politeness.

“You, Katarina, are too naive. This is the second Empire I’ve served, and I’ve come to accept that it’s impossible for a state to survive time itself. There may be a time when we need to abandon this one, and its pretensions of eternality. I mean, for fuck’s sake, remember Karl Franz? Poor boy died on the toilet!” 

This made her chuckle. “If you can recall,” he said, placing a hand upon her shoulder, “I am an exile, precisely because of my liberalism. The purpose of politics is to help people, not to merely preserve institutions. Right now, that means preventing everyone from murdering one another over some field in Bourcand.”

“And how do you propose we do that? We can forestall the end by another ten years by winning this war without having a runaway victory. We can maybe even work out a decent peace. But this,” Kreuzer gestured, referring to the palace itself. “This is all going to be gone. Whether in our lifetime or our childrens’.”

At the mention of children, Rubinsky visibly stiffened. His hand on Kreuzer’s shoulder had become a death-grip. Rubinsky sighed, and set down his glass. “Katarina, you know as well as I that this is beyond our control. The men need a reprieve before we meet with the army. You need a reprieve. It’s been a fortnight since you’ve slept properly.”

“How can I sleep, surrounded by morons? Adrian, we’ve been naively thinking that--”

“This system can survive. You are right, and I am wrong. Has it ever been otherwise?” This got a laugh out of her, at least. “Listen to me Katarina. You are responsible for the entire III Corps. Thirteen-thousand odd men, and god knows how many guns and horses. They aren’t the only ones who need to relax. You do too.”

“Adrian, we are two hundred odd kilometers from where Trement must be. If he wanted to march here, he’d have to go all the way around the mountains, or cut his way through Merkatz’s men. He may be a brilliant commander, but he is not a wizard.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders this time, and stared into her eyes. There was a light behind her eyes which he had never seen in another person before. “Katarina. We’ve had this conversation every day for three months. If not that, it feels like it. Go to sleep. If you let yourself drown in things beyond your control, you won’t be able to focus on things inside your control. Like the idiot prince.”

“What, the fop? How’d he ever get into a position of power like he has?”

“I assume for winning us the victory at Siencziwiek.”

“That? That was luck. His men got lost on the way to the battlefield and found themselves behind the Konopackian guns.”

Rubinsky shrugged. “That could be seen as some sort of skill. Besides, that doesn’t change the fact that it won the battle.”

Katarina downed the rest of the brandy, and shoved her arm off of him. He stiffened at the loss. She handed him her empty glass, and waved him off. “I’m returning to my quarters. Would you mind supervising the rest of the ball?”

Rubinsky allowed himself a small grin. “Of course, madam. I’ll try to make sure the idiot out there doesn’t kill himself in a duel.” 

“Oh please.” She turned back to him, a true smile on her face for the first time that night. “Let him. It’ll save us all some trouble.”


End file.
